


Make the Most of Never-Never

by Zee (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-05
Updated: 2006-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows what this is. Thanks to a *lot* of people for helping me beat this into shape, most notabley special_trille, maelithil and metaphoracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Most of Never-Never

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Yuletide 2005.

“Sammy! Sam. Sam, heeeeey.”

Dean is clearly drunk. Really fucking drunk, and probably using all of his brainpower just to walk upright. 

At the moment, he’s draping himself on the doorjamb to their hotel room in a way that’s almost obscene, and probably illegal in several states. The leer just adds to the effect, and gives Sam flashbacks to freshman year, being fourteen and accidentally stumbling upon his brother with a girl’s head in his lap. 

But he’s not fourteen now, and he doubts Dean has gotten lucky; he reeks of alcohol, but not other bodies. Not sex. Sam just rolls his eyes. “Hi Dean. Need some help walking to the bathroom to puke, or can you manage it on your own?”

“Hey! I’m not gonna barf,” Dean says, with all the righteous indignation of someone who can’t feel his toes. 

Dean shoulders past Sam and flops down dramatically on the bed, flinging his arms out wide. “This town has *great* beer, Sammy.”

Sam closes the hotel door and leans against it, eyeing Dean. “I can see that. It must have been *really* exceptional.”

Dean burps loudly. “Yeah. Stop looking at me like that, Sammy, I’m not doing anything wrong.” 

Sam starts. “I wasn’t... don’t call me Sammy.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean sits up straight then and stares right at Sam, a weird sober light in his eyes. “You could’ve come with me.” He ruins the seriousness by leering again and flopping back down on the bed. 

“Yeah, I can see that I really missed a fantastic time,” Sam says dryly. Dean just grin-leers at him again, and wriggles on the bed. Sam doesn’t take it personally; Dean’s like this with everyone when he’s drunk. 

Sam goes to sit on the edge of the bed. “So did you get laid?”

“Mmm, personal questions, Sammy.” Dean licks his lips; his eyes are unfocused, and he’s probably too drunk to get his own damn shoes off.

“That was the whole reason for your venture, wasn’t it? So it’s a valid question.”

“Mmm,” Dean says again, and cocks his head to the side like it’s a difficult question to answer. “Nah. The only cute chicks were all married.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh god. *Please* tell me that you did not get in any fist fights with the locals. We need their cooperation to solve this case, remember?”

Dean frowns at him, and rubs at Sam’s knee with his boot. “No. I was a good little boy.” His voice is slurring, and his eyelids drooping; Sam wonders if he’ll fall asleep in his clothes. In his shoes. The thought brings some satisfaction to him. 

But then Dean is wide awake again, smiling wide at him and sitting up, leaning in close. “You should’ve come with me. It really was great beer.” His voice is a low, gravelly purr, and his breath smells like alcohol, and Sam has to force himself to look away.

“I got drunk and partied enough in college. I don’t feel the need to do it with you.” Sam’s not sure what Dean interpreted from that, but it wasn’t anything good; his face darkens, and then Dean’s hands are on Sam’s shoulders, pushing, making them both lose their balance and fall off the bed, onto the skinny patch of floor between the two hotel beds.

They wrestle without much enthusiasm in the cramped space, and eventually Dean comes out on top, panting down on Sam. But he doesn’t look mad anymore; far from it. He leans in to sniff at Sam’s neck, and Sam tenses all over.

When Sam was eighteen and stupid and scared about going away to college despite his bravado, he’d thought about this. Thought about his brother, about the girls Dean took out, jerked off thinking about it; at the time it was one more thing to add to the list of Why Sam Winchester’s Life Sucked: No girlfriend, weird father, no real friends to speak of, boring school, no money, fucked-up unattainable crush on older brother. It made Sam sort of sick to want Dean that much, and he repressed it as much as he could. 

Then one night, after Dean almost got skewered by some revenge demon wielding an honest-to-god *sword*, Sam sneaked into his bedroom. Dean seemed still half-asleep when Sam pressed a sloppy, wet kiss to his mouth, his heart was in his throat the entire time.

“Sam. You need to go back to sleep,” Dean had said, his voice gruff and calm like Sam hadn’t just done something disgusting, taboo and permanent. Sam did go back to his room, but he didn’t sleep; a week later he announced he was leaving for Stanford. 

For a few seconds, he’d been sure that Dean had kissed back.

And now Dean is — is fucking *nuzzling* him. “Dean,” Sam says sharply, and pushes against him, only to have Dean slump and start snoring lightly against his skin.

And that’s just – it’s not funny, it’s *not.* Sam laughs anyway.

***

Sam wakes up the next morning to the cheerful sounds of Dean throwing up.

“Your hangover better not be too bad,” Sam calls from the bed. “We have work to do.”

Dean flips him off without lifting his head from the toilet, and Sam snorts before rolling out of bed himself. “Anything I can do to make your hangover better so that I can take my shower already?”

Dean looks up at that, glaring at him. “Aspirin. Tylenol. Advil. What-the-fuck-ever, just *get* me some.” He makes a hand waving motion. “Should be some in the first-aid kit.”

“A first-aid kit shouldn’t be used for *hangovers,*” Sam retorts, but pulls on a pair of jeans and a jacket to go out to the car and get it.

It’s freezing—they’re in fucking North Dakota, and it’s early, and Sam can’t grab the first-aid kit fast enough. He gets Dean a glass of water and throws him the bag of pain-killers, watching bemused as Dean downs one after another. 

“Done throwing up yet?”

That earns him another red-eyed glare. “Fuck you.”

Sam snorts. “Seriously though, I need to take a shower and we need to get to work.” 

Dean mutters something incoherent and gets to his feet. The fabric of his boxers is worn almost see-through, and his hair is sticking at weird angles, and his shoulder brushes Sam’s as he walks out of the bathroom and Sam walks in.

Dean is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the day; he lets Sam drive, and spends most of the time staring out the window or going over the information they have on this case. In short, he’s acting like Sam, and it’s unnerving. Sam wonders just how fuzzy Dean’s memory of the previous night is.

After they spend most of the day like this, Sam finally snaps. It’s not just that Dean’s getting on his nerves; they’ve gotten hardly any work done, and Sam would like to get this case done already so that they can get the hell out of North Dakota.

“Dean, either stop brooding or tell me what the hell is wrong,” he finally snaps while they’re picking up dinner at the 7-11 down the street from their motel.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not brooding. That’s your schtick.”

“The constant scowling, staring out the car window, staying quiet instead of snapping wisecracks... come on, Dean. Just tell me what’s up.”

That earns him a full-on glare. “Nothing’s up, Sam. Drop it.”

Sam loves his brother, but he’s such an idiot sometimes. Most of the time.

However, after their little chat Dean at least gets more useful, if not less taciturn. Unsurprisingly, the case turns out to be a standard revenge demon: some guy whose children were murdered in front of them who then went insane and killed himself, exerting his revenge by luring other children away to their deaths. So far there’s been anywhere from one to ten children missing from the town of Aldecott, North Dakota every decade since 1940.

On their way to the graveyard to burn the guy’s corpse, Dean lets Sam drive again. He’s looking broody and awkward again, but Sam doesn’t say anything. If Dean doesn’t—

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night I had no right to treat you like that,” Dean says suddenly, all in one breath. 

Sam blinks. “Weren’t you the one that hated chick flick moments?” He buries the contents of what Dean actually said deep in the back of his brain, never to be looked at again.

Dean looks *stiff.* “I just –-wanted to make sure that you knew that I was aware my actions were inappropriate, and I didn’t mean to—“ he stops, his face red.

Suddenly Sam’s just – angry. Angry and tired of this whole stupid thing. “Dean, you were drunk,” he snaps. “Drunk and touchy-feely. I’m over it, okay?” The words feel sharp and sour falling out of his mouth.

Dean shifts in his seat. To Sam, it looks like he’s going to explode any second. “Right. Fine. I was drunk, and I acted like an asshole. It won’t happen again.”

“Wow, you’re never drinking again, just to preserve my chastity? I’m touched,” Sam spits out. They reach the graveyard and Sam parks the car, gets out and slams his door shut. He’s not even entirely sure what they’re fighting about, just that they are.

“Excuse me for trying to do what you always *tell* me to do and talk about my feelings and crap,” he hears Dean huff behind him. They get weapons and corpse-burning supplies without looking at each other.

“I just don’t get why you think it’s such a big deal,” Sam lies. He clicks on his flashlight and starts pointing it at headstones, squinting to see if they can find the name of their target.

“Yeah, I guess it’s totally not a big deal. I guess it’s just normal for brothers to either get into physical fights or try and grope each other when they’re wasted, huh? Because you’d know all about normal, wouldn’t you Sam?” Sam can hear the anger rising in Dean’s voice, and all he can feel himself is sick. They’ve managed to avoid talking about this for four years, why do they have to start now?

Sam turns towards Dean to deliver a cutting retort, and that’s when the demon takes them by surprise and everything goes black.

***

Sam wakes up to the dank, dusty smell of rotting wood. He can hear Dean breathing next to him – no. On *top* of him. Everything else is dark.

“Dean?” He’s doing something with his hands that Sam quite can’t see, and cursing under his breath. 

“Oh, you’re awake now.” Dean moves his arm, and Sam almost gets an elbow in the ribs.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean’s body is heavy on his, pressed against him; Sam can smell his shampoo. “What the hell’s going on?”

He can hear Dean doing something with his hands above them, and Sam tries to crane his neck around Dean’s head to see what it is. Dean grunts. “We’re in an open grave. Well, the *grave* is open; the coffin is nailed shut.”

“Oh. So that revenge demon—“

“Decided to get creative with us, yeah.” 

Dean must be trying to unscrew the lid, or get it off some other way. He’s moving around a lot, and Sam can’t help but be hyper aware of how close they are, how Dean’s weight is heavy on top of him, his ass snug against Sam’s hips. 

“And our weapons?”

“All gone.” Dean curses. “I’m trying to get us out using my swiss army knife.”

“Aren’t you the boy scout,” Sam murmurs, preoccupied. His hands, operating under a mind of their own, curl around Dean’s hips. He feels Dean tense, but Dean doesn’t say anything; when one of Sam’s hands moves to his thigh, Sam can hear him take in a sharp, quick breath, but he keeps fiddling with the lid.

Sam bites his lip and his hand moves tentatively to cover Dean’s crotch, squeezing slightly. That finally gets a reaction.

“Sam,” Dean says sharply. “Are you possessed again?”

Sam snorts, and moves his hand away. “No.” 

“Okay. Then just...” Dean’s voice trails off, and his movements still. They’re so close that Sam can hear him swallow.

Sam’s fingers creep up underneath Dean’s t-shirt. He can feel warm skin, sweat, the soft fuzz of Dean’s chest hair. 

“Sam,” Dean says again, but his voice is different than it was. Softer, lower, with an undercurrent of – something. Sam can’t quite identify it.

Then there’s suddenly a loud cracking noise, and Sam can *feel* Dean’s smug smile. “I broke it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

***

Dean gets thrown hard against a gravestone during the resulting fight with the demon, wrenching out his shoulder. Sam insists on driving them back because of this, earning himself sullen, glaring Dean cradling his arm all the way back to the hotel. They don’t exchange any words besides “How does your arm feel?” “How the fuck do you think it feels?” “Okay then.” Sam focuses on the road.

Dean grabs the shower as soon as they step into their room, and Sam flops onto his back on the bed and waits for him to come out. He can hear the water running and Dean’s hisses and curses — probably exclaiming at various cuts and bruises. If he concentrates, he can even hear Dean’s hands rubbing soap over his body, lathering his hair, fiddling with the water controls.

Being a hunter hasn’t so much enhanced his hearing as made it easier to focus on what he hears and what he doesn’t. If he focuses, he can hear certain sounds above others, zero in on them. And Dean has always been difficult to *not* focus on.

Dean comes out with a towel wrapped around his waist, and Sam sits up. 

“How is the arm *really?* Do we need to go to a hospital?”

Dean rolls his shoulder and winces a little. “It hurts, but — no hospitals. It’ll be fine if I just leave it.”

Sam frowns, because that is a shit strategy if he’s ever heard one, but Dean gives him the narrow-eyed look that means no arguing, and he shuts up. 

And stays quiet while Dean finds a pair of clean boxers and shimmies into them, his back to Sam. His hair is wet and spiked up, and there’s still the sheen of water on his back. Sam meets Dean’s eyes when Dean turns around and catches him staring.

Sam doesn’t look away, and Dean – Dean actually *blushes,* which makes Sam raise an eyebrow.

“Are we ever going to talk about what happened in the coffin today? Or when you were drunk last night? Or-“

“There’s nothing to talk about, Sammy,” Dean snaps. The ‘Sammy’ is a diversion tactic, used to try and piss Sam off and get him distracted from the subject at hand.

Sam snorts. “Right. Of course there isn’t.” He stands up and uses his height to his advantage, looming a little over Dean.

Dean looks away, a tight expression on his face. “You’re my fucking *brother.* My *baby* brother.”

“Baby. Right.” Dean tries to shoulder past him, but Sam catches his arm. “And it would be *wrong* and *immoral* and all those other things they preach about in Sunday School, isn’t that right? Bro?”

Dean grits his teeth, and when Sam glances down he can see the outline of Dean’s erection through his boxers.

“You don’t want this, Sammy. You just think you do. It’s – I don’t know what it is, probably some kind of coping mechanism for Jess, or-“

Sam shakes him, hard, just to get him to *shut up,* but Dean yanks his arm out of Sam’s grip and shoves him back harder, makes Sam stumble. 

Dean is glaring at him, breathing hard, and all Sam can do is stare at the droplets of water collected on his rising and falling chest. And Sam knows that he owes Dean an explanation, an apology, *anything* but he’s frustrated and tired enough that he doesn’t care about making Dean understand first, doesn’t care about making this better for either of them. It’s easier to cross the distance between them in two long strides, easier to grab Dean and smash their mouths together, easier still to muffle Dean’s gasp with his mouth and press hard against Dean’s chest, getting droplets of water all over Sam’s clothes. For a few seconds, Sam is eighteen again, crawling into his brother’s bed, breathing through his mouth and too nervous and full of need to even speak; then Dean’s gasp turns into a groan and Dean’s mouth is hot and wild against his, Dean’s hands are twisting and clenching in Sam’s shirt, and Sam can feel the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek when Dean closes his eyes.

Sam vaguely realizes that he’s squeezing Dean’s bad arm and tries to maneuver so that he’s not hurting him, but Dean just uses the arm to pull Sam closer, to reach down and grab Sam’s ass. Sam can feel Dean’s *nails* digging into him, and it’s just one more reminder of how naked he needs to be. 

Somehow they get on the bed; Sam has no idea how, because Dean’s *tongue* is in his mouth and everything else in the universe is just secondary. Dean winds up on top of him, sort of, and then no one’s on top – it’s just a tangle of limbs and hands and tongues, and somehow Sam gets his hand down Dean’s pants, squeezes Dean’s dick and his moan goes straight down Sam’s spine, straight to the base of his cock.

Sam feels Dean bury his head in the crook of Sam’s neck, feels Dean kiss him there. He slides his hand up Dean’s cock, rubbing his thumb over the head and feeling pre-come, rubbing it between his fingers. Dean bucks into his hand, bites at his neck, and Sam feels the movement of Dean’s lips against his neck and knows he’s murmuring Sam’s name.

Sam doesn’t want to think about what it might mean that this feels so familiar, that he loves--*loves*--stroking Dean’s dick, but even though his wrist is cramping a little this feels too damn close to perfect. He thinks about what it might be like to have Dean in his mouth and has to bite back a groan.

Dean’s hands are moving all over him, and Sam really needs to at *least* take his jacket off, but that would require taking his hand off Dean’s dick, which isn’t going to happen. He strokes faster and tilts his head back, giving Dean more access to his neck – and jesus christ. He’s going to have a *hickey* tomorrow, probably more than one. It makes another hot shiver run down his spine.

Sam feels Dean tense all over, and then Dean is biting his neck *hard* and shooting into Sam’s hand, and Sam thinks this is going to drive him insane. Fuck, if it hasn’t already. He holds Dean through the orgasm, and then strong hands are against his chest, rolling him over onto his back, and Sam lies back and closes his eyes as Dean strips off his jacket, shirt, jeans.

Sam feels Dean’s hand cup his erection and gasps, bucks up and grabs Dean’s shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss. Dean’s tongue dips into his mouth, teasing and swift, and then the kiss is over and Sam watches, dazed, as Dean drags his tongue down Sam’s chest, his hand working Sam’s cock out of the flap of his boxers.

Dean’s tongue on his cock feels like everything wrong and right in the world, black and white smashed together, exploding in fireworks behind Sam’s eyes. Dean’s mouth is warm and wet and makes Sam think he was crazy to ever run from this, even though he knows he should still be running; Dean’s *teeth* are scraping down the shaft and his nails are digging into Sam’s thigh, and he never looks away from Sam’s face even for a second. 

Sam comes with his eyes closed, shuddering and shouting his brother’s name. 

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut afterwords. He’s vaguely aware of Dean pulling off and sitting up, then lying down beside him, curled against Sam’s side. When Sam opens his eyes and kisses him, he can taste himself.

“I know-“ Sam’s voice cracks. He swallows. “I know what this is, Dean. I know— I know we shouldn’t-“

Dean’s hand clenches in the sheets. “Dammit, Sammy. I – you *started* this, I should be stronger-“

There are too many shoulds in this conversation, Sam thinks. “It’s – it’s okay,” he says, and doesn’t even convince himself. Dean just looks angrier. 

Then Dean closes his eyes and the expression on his face is almost neutral. He kisses Sam on the forehead and stands up; something inside Sam’s chest clenches painfully.

“We should get some sleep,” Dean says. His voice is different: lower, more gravelly. Like it’s been scratched up with bits of broken glass.

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows. “Is this going to happen again? Because if it is, it’s really just practical to share a bed-“

“Sam,” Dean says, and now he just sounds tired. Sam shuts up.

Dean crawls into bed and Sam lies back down, staring up at the ceiling until he drifts to sleep.


End file.
